This Mirror Isn't Big Enough For The Two Of Us
by Gray Doll
Summary: 'In the morning, she tells him yes.' / JanexLisbon, now continued / mild spoilers for season 6's latest episodes
1. Chapter 1

**This Mirror Isn't Big Enough For The Two Of Us**

It was supposed to be better, here in their new world.

They were to rebuild, to begin anew and have a happier life. Full of struggles, full of obstacles – but a happy and healthy life, like they've always wanted. One without the threat of monsters looming over them.

When they are called to their first crime scene, together after two years, she's more than a little apprehensive to approach the dead body, and from the corner of her eye she sees that he isn't doing well either. It's not the inevitable nausea that hits the rookies at the sight of a corpse when they first start their jobs. It's not the sorrow for a life lost.

It's the profound knowledge that, no matter how hard they try, things will never be the same again. They can banter and fight over his wild stunts and questionable methods of investigating. They can interrogate suspects, she as professionally as ever, he being his usual annoying self.

They can do all these things, pretend that nothing ever happened, but there are miles separating them that they simply can't bridge.

They solve the case in less than three days and earn themselves a stream of complaints from the grieving widower and his family, but she knows the FBI won't even think of firing them. Jane is simply too precious (because this is all about solving cases, it always has been), and though she's nothing to them but another cop they can certainly do without, his overwhelming stubbornness and his confidence that he can impose everyone's lives will keep her glued to him for as long as he pleases.

He takes them out for dinner afterwards, and she convinces herself that she's having a good time. He makes her laugh when he pretends to materialize a flower from behind her ear and offers it to her (she wants to keep it forever and burn it at the same time). He makes her frown when he messes with the young waiter, and she throws her bread at him when he tells her she looks cute eating her lamb.

When they leave, she can see that he lingers at her doorstep for more than she would have otherwise thought acceptable. But it's a different world now, and she invites him in, failing to reciprocate his wide grin as he makes his way to her living room.

They make themselves comfortable in her couch, she with a glass of red wine and he with his irreplaceable tea. He starts talking about his time in South America, and she isn't sure she wants to listen, but she does anyway (because she knows there really is no point in trying to stop him from doing what he wants, and he seems to want to tell her).

She nods and smiles, all the while her mind conjuring images of him walking down endless golden beaches, watching the sunset and enjoying his newfound freedom. She is afraid to, but she asks him – how does he feel now? Now that everything's over, now that he has the chance to live again?

That is when he proposes.

At first, she laughs. Because surely he's joking. Then she sees that his pupils are dilated, his eyes glistening orbs of expectation, and she takes a long, shuddering breath to steady herself before placing her wineglass on the table beside them and looking back at him.

He has taken off his wedding ring, and her heart misses a beat at the sight.

Understanding flashes in his eyes, followed by sorrow and regret. "I shouldn't have asked," he says, his eyes downcast. "Forgive me," he whispers, his voice a choked whisper.

She places a hand on his shoulder and tries to say something, but the words won't come. He stands abruptly, his eyes everywhere but on her, and before she has a chance to stop him he's storming out of the house, leaving the door open behind him.

She contemplates running after him. Instead she buries her face in her hands, and she cries for the first time in months.

A whole week passes before they're called to another crime scene (she's sure he has deliberately kept cases from being passed to them), and when he steps into her car a lump rises in her throat. The drive is silent, and they both avoid looking at each other – when they finally reach the crime scene her fingers ache from clutching the steering wheel too hard.

When he bents over to take a better look at the dead body, she notices that his fingers are all bare, his wedding ring still nowhere to be seen.

Tears are streaming down her face when she wraps her arms around him, pulling him close. She is mildly surprised when he hugs her back, burying his face in her hair, whispering over and over that he's sorry.

She tells him to put his ring back on.

He tells her that he wants (that he _needs_) to forget.

Shaking her head, she insists that forgetting and moving on are two entirely different things. That he will never be able to forgive himself if he lets them go now. He says that he will never forgive himself for many things.

And one of those things will be not trying to start anew with her.

It doesn't take them long to fall into bed, kissing and murmuring sweet nothings she's not sure they mean. In the darkness of her bedroom it's hard to tell where she begins and where he ends. It's hard to tell whether it's her on his mind or his dead wife. But she surrenders either way, because there's nothing else left to do.

That night they say nothing, nor do they lay near enough to touch when they pretend to sleep.

He does not hold her when she quietly cries into her hands, and he does not tell her that all will be well. She does not curl against his back when his breaths shudder and quake with the effort not to break down, and she does not whisper to him that they will make it through.

The quietness of the house, the memories still haunting them and the rift between them settle over them like a cold blanket, suffocating them.

In the morning, she tells him yes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes: **As you can see, I've decided to continue this. This chapter was originally posted individually as a sequel of sorts, but since this story is probably going to be a multi-chapter, I decided that perhaps continuing it here will be far more practical than posting several different stories. I just hope you're not very confused. Obviously, this is going to be AU, and a little angsty (it's not a bubbly, all fluffy Jisbon marriage story), but there are still spoilers for season 6 and its recent episodes.

* * *

The night before the wedding, he asks her if she wants to leave him and never look back.

It isn't exactly an accusation, nor is it a trick question. It is simple, honest, finally giving them the chance to be open – something they haven't been with each other for far too long, but maybe it's better that way.

She doesn't want to answer, because no matter what he means with that question, what she says now will probably hurt them more. And they are already in such a fragile state as it is. But she just can't bring herself to lie – she never has. And even if she tries, she knows he'll just read through her, and she isn't in the mood for that.

"I've thought about it," she says, eyes fixed on the simple wedding dress laid out on the bed before her. It's plain white fabric, modest and traditional. She wonders briefly if she should get married in black instead.

He nods solemnly. It might not be the answer he wants, but it is certainly the one he knew he would get.

However that doesn't make it any easier for him, that much she can tell.

"Do you regret it?" he asks, and she draws a long breath. A loaded question, that doesn't have a precise answer.

She stares down at his hands, at his bare finger. His wedding band isn't there, nothing to signify the life he lived with his dead wife. Tomorrow there will be a new ring there, one that will be a token of their vows of love and trust and respect (that she knows won't last for long).

She suddenly feels old, and tired. "Regret what, Jane? You could mean a thousand things."

He sighs, sitting down on the bed beside the dress. "Having me back in your life. In more ways than one."

She doesn't look at him, and several long seconds pass before he speaks again.

"I guess I should take your silence as a yes, then."

She swallows, her fingers now clutching at the flimsy fabric she'd been softly caressing until now. "No," she whispers, and he shakes his head.

"I proposed to you because I wanted us to be happy," he says, his voice eerily calm, and she finally turns to meet his eyes. "I've done more damage than good, haven't I?"

Just like that, the tension finally snaps, and the air between them crackles with emotion.

"Is that even a question?" she demands, her vision blurry with fatigue and tears she thought had long ago left her entirely. "It's been two years, Jane. _Two years_. And ten more before that. And after all this time, you still think you can pull my strings as you please, that you have the right to do it." Her voice is trembling. "I'm tired of this, Jane. I'm tired of dancing to your tunes."

He looks like he's been slapped. His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly agape, and it's the most vulnerable she's seen him since the day they first met, all these years ago (when she had no idea what she'd signed up for).

For a moment, she pities him. She feels sorry, wants to tell him that she didn't mean to say those things, that everything's fine – but really, nothing's fine and this is the most honest she's ever been with him. And she just can't bring herself to lie.

"I thought this is want you wanted," he murmurs, barely audible in the quiet of the bedroom. "I... I know this is what _I_ want."

She stares at him, emerald eyes wide and shining and cheeks flushed. "You have convinced yourself that you want to forget, but you really don't," she says, her tone uncharacteristically bitter. He seems to notice that, for he flinches visibly at her words, turning his gaze to the wooden floorboards under his bare feet. She sighs. "I don't want to be a distraction from your past, Jane. I'm done with that."

Inwardly, she snickers. They're getting married tomorrow, and they're not on a first name basis yet.

He looks almost panicked. "You're not a distraction," he says and his voice nearly breaks with emotion. "I love you. I thought you knew that – you _must_ know it."

His heart is in his eyes; he's so open these days, it makes her wonder what has happened to the man she once knew. She will always remember, that first time she looked into his eyes and found walls she wanted to break down.

But this is not the progressive shedding of a mask, it's a collapse, violent and irrevocable. And she, foolish as she had been, had thought that he – _they_ – would have a chance in happiness and freedom after everything was over.

"No, I don't know it," she whispers, slumping down on the bed next to him. "What I do know is that you'd never make it without me."

It feels odd, frightening even, to say this out loud. She knows it's the truth, and it's liberating, in a way, to finally voice her thoughts.

He doesn't deny it.

"You want me in your life, because I've stubbornly stuck by your side all these years," she resumes, watching as his mouth becomes a tight line and his eyelids droop. "Love and necessity are two different things. So are forgetting and moving on."

Slowly, he swivels round to face her fully. "I'm not making hasty decisions," he says, his tone guarded. He sounds sincere to her, and she holds her breath as she waits for him to continue. "You've been more to me than just a partner. You've been a friend, an anchor, and you've made me feel things I was once certain I would never feel again."

She can't help the small chuckle that escapes her then, even though she knows now is the time to stay silent and just listen. "Isn't the romantic confession supposed to come _before_ the proposal?"

He cracks a smile. "Well, you didn't give me a chance when I popped the question."

Letting out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, she places her hand on top of his, aware that it's quite probably the first gesture of affection towards him since the day he asked her to marry him.

"I don't want us to get married and sink in depression afterwards."

He shakes his head, his free hand quickly cupping her own on top of his other one. "We won't," he says firmly, and she tilts her head to the side.

"Couples are supposed to be happy before their wedding. We're anything but."

She half-expects him to deny it, to try and convince her that they're simply confused, that they will find their own place among the stars if they only keep believing in each other. He doesn't.

"We were never happy to begin with," he says, looking down at their entwined hands on his lap. "But we don't have to go through this alone. We _love_ each other."

He looks almost like a child, begging his parents to tell him that Santa Claus is real and that everything the neighbor kid told him are lies. The desperation is back in his voice – the need to hear that his words are true, that he does love her and that she loves him back. She knows he can't live with pretending not to feel anymore.

"We do," she says at long last, not entirely sure she means it. Because she has loved him for as long as she can remember, but what he feels for her is something that is certainly more complex and not what either of them would have liked.

But it will have to do, because there's nothing else left to cling to.

She closes her eyes when he presses his lips to hers, with an urgency she hasn't experienced from him before. Once again, she surrenders, and at least for tonight she dares to hope that maybe they can make this work after all.

Later, as she lays with his arms wrapped tightly around her, like he's never going to let go, she softly laughs.

"We ruined my dress," she says with a smile, and he gives her a small peck on the lips, grinning widely when he pulls back. Because right now, it's easier than ever to pretend.

"You can always get married in jeans," he suggests, and she pinches him. "Hey! You'd look cute even in your work outfit!"

"I'll have to buy a new one," she sighs, gazing up at the ceiling as he runs his fingers through her hair. "I was thinking that white is too traditional, though. Perhaps black would make an impression."

He shrugs. "It depends on whom you want to impress."

"I don't want to impress anyone."

"On what statement you want to make, then."

She goes silent for a while, closing her eyes contentedly as his hand moves to her bare arm and starts rubbing soothing circles over her skin. "I should probably wear something red, then," she says, and she can almost feel his eyes widening in the darkness. She opens her eyes slowly, and arches an eyebrow at him.

"What?" she asks teasingly. "I was merely thinking that the sudden absence of red from our lives has been... disquieting, to say the least."

He blinks his blue eyes, clearly unsure whether she's joking or being serious.

She simply can't resist the urge to laugh. "Calm down, I'm only kidding. Don't worry, I'll be a picture-perfect bride in white for you."


End file.
